


Golden Slumbers Fill Your Eyes

by softer_softest



Category: Maurice (1987)
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Canon Gay Characters, Canon Gay Relationship, E.M. Forster - Freeform, Edwardian Period, Love Is All Around, M/M, Sexual Tension, clive's Sort Of a peeping tom i am terribly sorry, emotional tension, just..... Adoration, maurice (1987) - Freeform, nothing vile he's just.... besotted, period gays, this is an ode to maurice hall lmao excuse me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 22:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softer_softest/pseuds/softer_softest
Summary: Maurice is felt in every fibre of his being in that moment; he’s felt on the surface of his skin, in the tingle of his toes, in the drumming of his heart and beyond. Maurice is an emotion, translated in the agony of pure love, travelling in the form of an electric current all throughout him.or, a tiny thing in the form of an ode to what could have been.





	Golden Slumbers Fill Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> i've always thought the contrast of emotions i have for Movie Clive and Book Clive is really funny, but My Clive in this (tiny, hateful) piece is timid, and whipped, and doesn't have anything figured out. not that you would notice since it's so unbelievably SHORT, but i guess it gives me the excuse to write more. the characters belong to e.m. forster - my favorite author - whose birthday was just three days ago! i hope you enjoy.

It was only the weekend at which time allowed them to see each other. It was two full days basking in one another’s company and caresses, forgetting about the inevitable stress and lectures that awaited them come Monday, up until Friday once again. But the weekend; a sweet break from all the things that caused Clive’s sorrow; sorrow and cynicism then sorrow again, for one thing that drove him mad was the sheer hypocrisy that surrounded him, like a vice.

Today, however, is neither Saturday nor Sunday, yet there Clive is; standing right outside the door of Maurice’s rooms, late at night. Fridays come close enough, he had tried to convince himself throughout the short walk from his rooms to the beloved’s, and thus reassuring himself enough to stop his hands from trembling. He never goes further than a step away from the opening, where a tiny slice of candlelight allows him a view of the interior - surely it must have been a mistake, Maurice is rather paranoid about the lack of privacy around here.

Forever a gentleman, Clive forces his quivering hand to knock on the door softly, though clumsily. The knock is timid and barely audible, reflecting on the inside of Clive’s head right this instant - blank, void of anything to say, anything to do. No reply, none even after he’s knocked a second time, so he lets his teenage-like impulse take over and steps in uninvited. The floorboards creak under his shoes, but it’s all distant noise as he looks around for a sign of Maurice, who seems to have vanished into thin air. For a moment, he idly thinks he must have misheard his statement of _“heading to bed, being absolutely knackered”_ followed by a charming yawn; but then another slice of golden light grasps his attention, cracking through the door leading to his bedroom.

At once Clive walks over, stopping himself right before he rashly barges in. His eyes search around in the room through the crack in the opening, looking for floppy blond hair, the sight of a sluggish walk. Sure enough, he spots Maurice standing before his mirror, observing himself with great focus. Clive notices his shirt appears to be unbuttoned through his reflection, though he has yet to pull it off of his shoulders. The sight efficiently dries up his mouth until he almost chokes on his own inhale, whereas his eyes are permanently focused, unable to move.

Maurice’s own eyes peruse every corner of his face - everything Clive has tried time and time again to become so acquainted with, from the sharpness of his jaw to the furrow of his eyebrows, though he’d never looked at him as intensely as Maurice is looking at himself. Clive observes as the beloved runs a hand through his hair, eyes fixed on his reflection’s antagonising gaze, and pulls the stringy curls back, flat and slick. He lets them go, and Clive lets a little breath escape him.

He’s not heard as Maurice starts to shrug off his shirt listlessly, his eyes now studying his own chest, exposed under the distant candlelight. He’s hairless, as a proper manchild should be. Not a boy, though not yet a man and Clive still finds himself so hopelessly in love, it aches sometimes - aches to hold, to caress, to cling. Repressed thoughts of longing start to reappear as Maurice stands deadly still, the muscles in his back as lean and softly protruding as in his front - years of athletic talent showing on his body, though not to an extent which would seem intimidating. It helps keep Clive grounded, sometimes - Maurice’s attractiveness that is - hence reminding him he’s just a pathetic mortal who will sooner rather than later suffer from his own weakened impulse, the curse of attraction.

Trousers soon come off, as well - shoes supposedly having come off long before Clive entered - until the lovely one is standing in only his underwear, still uselessly staring at his reflection, with an expression unreadable. Clive’s natural reaction is to tightly close his eyes shut as soon as Maurice so much as touches the hem of his underwear, feeling like an intruder in this mesmerising act of awe to one’s own body. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be longing nor lusting after his dearest friend - his only friend - whose body appears so pale and lithe under the golden light, almost beckoning Clive closer, asking him to run his cold hands over the warm tenderness of muscle. Eyes closing tighter as a zip, and then the softest of thuds are heard, and Clive feels so disgusted with himself for watching in, he rests his head against the doorframe and forgets why he’s even closed his eyes.

It’s a true sight to behold. Like an angel straight out of a Michelangelo painting, Maurice appears stark naked, stance neutral in front of the mirror, his eyes exploring every inch of his exposed being. Clive’s attention is divided between the focused expression of his parted mouth and the sensual, strong lines of his legs, coming together to render him speechless for once in his life, without anything witty or thought-provoking to say. Broad shoulders start to relax under his own scrutinising stare until Maurice is able to let out a shallow breath, deflating his chest and stripping it of its dynamic, buff facade. Intruding eyes travel over the expanse of round calves, a narrow waist, flaring nostrils. He focuses on his shoulder-blades, on his navel, between his legs - anywhere he’d ever been ashamed of to admit, but now it’s clear this is all he’s ever wanted. To feel Maurice’s strong body solid against his, side to side, breast to breast, is to be a blissful man - invincible.

Slowly, he tries to contemplate his options. Any man sane enough to walk free would know he had better walk out that door as soon as he’d come in, but ever since he met Maurice, Clive has often felt insane with need, with longing. It’s only the best viable option after all - no, he thinks, the best viable option would have been to had never walked in uninvited, to have left as soon as the warm welcome hadn’t rung at his second knock. But as Clive observes the angel before him, he starts questioning whether walking away is really worth missing the chance of a lifetime: to love and to be loved, to lie close with your beloved, and - side to side, breast to breast - feel his warmth seep into your own body, feel the adoration become so unbearable it’s threatening to swallow you whole, and you’d let it, for what’s better than this? Having him close and snug, having him hold you much like a shut bud holds a bee.

And in a moment of sheer agony and bliss, Clive widens the opening. Maurice’s reaction is immediate, though it’s not what is expected. His eyes plainly avert from between his legs to Clive Durham’s timid face through the mirror, and it’s focused there, forgetting to take any action. They’re both unable of moving, let alone speaking the words they’ve been dying to speak, and so the undeniable tension is attempted to be resolved by silent staring before the generally less yellow of the two decides to take a lead.

Clive’s feet lead him just a little farther from Maurice, up until he’s well into the frame of the mirror. With a passing glance, he recognises that his forehead’s gone sweaty with nervousness, hair floppy and falling in his face, though this is of no importance when Maurice is standing right there. Maurice, still very much naked; Maurice, who has not yet dared to face him completely, and has just taken on staring at him through his reflection, in disbelief. Clive’s eyes never stray from Maurice’s own, in fear of startling the young man into moving and shielding himself, yelling in bewilderment and disgust, threatening to report him for all he’s worth. But, Clive - silly old Clive! He knows Maurice, his darling beloved, would never do such a thing, for he is too kind and unaware to even think about causing unwanted harm.

A shaky exhale and then a shy touch of skin, finger on bare shoulder-blade - and Maurice’s eyelids titter closed. Clive feels the electricity travel through his fingertip, so he dares move closer, putting said finger under Maurice’s pec, with a feather-light touch. Finger turns to palm and distance turns to dust as the warmth is transferred between them, and Clive finds himself intimately pressed against Maurice’s back, with both of his hands stroking over barely-felt bones.

Maurice spins around in his embrace, his eyes burning blue and soothing, and holds him close until all the air is drained out of Clive’s body, and his face is squashed against his neck - not by force, for Maurice had been soft and timid as ever, but by relief and contentment, the utmost bliss of being in your darling’s arms, the feeling of the world slowing down and ceasing to exist. His starry eyes open on an impulse and there he is; his reflection is looking back at him, almost conspiratorially, and he looks at Maurice’s naked back tenderly flexing and relaxing, his bare thighs clenched out of anxiety and excitement. The image they make is too stimulating for his senses to ignore, too overwhelming and absurd; he takes a deep, forceful breath and clings closer to his Maurice, his hands clawing at his back just to _feel,_ to hold and to be entwined with him, for just a precious moment.

Maurice is felt in every fibre of his being in that moment; he’s felt on the surface of his skin, in the tingle of his toes, in the drumming of his heart and beyond. Maurice is an emotion, translated in the agony of pure love, travelling in the form of an electric current all throughout him. It’s then that Clive is sure - not loving him is impossible, and it’s either that the beloved will return his affection, or he will be doomed to carry on miserably, living in futility, half-awake.

The darling one starts caressing the back of his neck, ever so soft and unsure, and his fingers lead him to push down Clive’s blazer - a mere layer is all it is, after all. Clive’s hazy eyes open once again, though this time in alarm and his arms remain unhelpfully bent around the sculpted body. More strokes, more caresses - and he obeys; soon enough the blazer falls onto the floor.

Next, come the suspenders, one by one Maurice lowers them until they’re hanging on his sides, still bare, exposed in all terms he can physically offer - and to Clive, out of all people! He, who did not know he needed it more than ever and anything! but it has become so glaringly apparent now. Button by button, Clive stands shirtless, and off come the shoes as well - no need for hurry.

“Maurice…” murmurs Clive, like a secret, buried deep in the beloved’s shoulder. His back is stroked, caressed, _felt._ “Oh, Maurice…”

“Yes,” he responds, and the word is lost in the thick, brown hair. “I know.”

 _I know,_ Clive thinks. But how could he know? - how would he be able to fathom the utmost intensity and chaos that are battling within him, all as a result of his undeniable love for _him,_ another man, his Maurice? Not even if Clive sat down and wrote a thousand letters, a million poems about his adoration would Maurice be able to understand the crushing depth of it, the toll it has taken on his soul.

They lay in bed together, feel the warmth share between them sweetly, and Clive doesn’t dare speak, for he’s afraid; it could all be a silly dream, like the ones that have been keeping him awake, and falling into the trap might signify the end of it. And just like that, his darling would turn into dust, and the walls would concave in on him, and he would wake up sweaty and alone - miserable, thinking of what _could_ have been. The possibility alone causes him to sob once, however, the second time is silenced with a kiss in his hair, and the third one never comes, for he is content.

There, with the beloved bare and solid, and himself just topless - a vulnerable wreck - Clive thinks this is the closest he has ever got to contentment. Maurice whispers words of endearment - talks of his love, of dreams, of beauty. Clive’s beauty. Crimson cheeks and an annoyed hush, but it is not taken seriously, and so he carries on - _Clive is beautiful, he’s intelligent, he’s elegant, he’s loved._

“Maurice....” he repeats, a courteous whisper lost in skin. “My Maurice…”

Maurice gives in - for Clive had unconsciously, or so he would say, offered his chin forward, his lips parted, welcoming. They kiss, soft as a first kiss ought to be, and then stare on into each other’s eyes until they crave their beloved’s taste once again and collapse into each other - side to side, breast to breast, beyond just imagination.

At that moment, Maurice is his - fair - concealed from the world and into his arms (or more like he in the darling one’s), so he sat still and felt his hair being stroked, caressed all along his scalp and neck. Shivers as cold hands touch bare skin, and his lower back tingles where Maurice’s fingers lie. And finally, Clive’s mind is able to escape from its cage of sin and blasphemy, and travel far, far away - thoughts always containing his beloved, for it is the only way it could - and shall - be.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for checking this out!


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